On the back was a date from 25 years earlier.
I unfolded the note.
Six words were written in careful handwriting.
“Ask your mother what she remembers.”
My mother?
I read it again, then looked across the street.
Mr. Harrison’s curtains were closed.
After what happened to Lily, an unidentified package with her name frightened me.
The note suggested someone knew our family history, and I couldn’t understand why.
I called the police.
Two officers arrived 15 minutes later.
I explained the encounter and showed them the box.
The younger officer examined the note while the older one studied the photograph.
Suddenly, he froze.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone left it on my porch.”
He turned the photograph over.
“That’s Anna,” he murmured.
“You know her?”
“I grew up around here. That little girl was Harrison’s daughter.”
I stared at him.
“Mr. Harrison had a daughter?”
He nodded.
“She had Down syndrome, too.”
